I swallowed hard. “We’re just sharing warmth.”
“Right.” A pause. “Sure.”
But then her body softened, relaxed completely, unconsciously molding toward the heat, towardme. Her hips pressed gently into mine again, her back aligning with my chest. Her hair brushed my jaw.
My breath stilled.
My restraint strained at the seams.
And then quietly, like a confession falling out of sleep, she whispered, “You smell good.”
I shut my eyes.
Hard.
This was torture.
Sweet, impossible torture.
“Sienna,” I whispered, voice wrecked, “I’m trying very, very hard not to break any rules.”
Her lips curved against the sleeping bag fabric. “Me too.”
“You’re not making it easy.”
“I know,” she breathed, barely conscious. “Neither are you.”
Her hips shifted again, accidentally grinding the faintest degree against me.
A low, involuntary sound escaped my throat, quiet, but not quiet enough.
Her breath caught.
Awareness flickered through her sleep-heavy voice.
“Carson…?”
I didn’t move.
I didn’t breathe.
The tent was suddenly hotter than any fire, but she didn’t pull away.
Instead, in a whisper that nearly undid me, she murmured, “Just… stay close, okay?”
I exhaled shakily.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her breathing evened out, slow and warm, her body melting against mine as if her sleep trusted me more than her waking mind did.
And lying there, breaking every rule we’d ever set, I realized something terrifyingly simple:
I didn’t want distance.
I didn’t want boundaries.
I didn’t want rules.
